Castle Oakhall
Lundene, Brytene
Bretwalda Cenwulf Teorell
He took another quaff of the fine Whitebay red and swilled it in his mouth, but even the fine flavour of the wine had lost its impact. Perhaps we should host another baseball tournament, he mused as he stared into the guttering fire, remembering the last international team invitational. Maybe, if the Brytisc team placed higher than the Connorian this time, his wife Charlotte would finally stop ribbing him about it.
Light footsteps made him look up from his reverie. In the evening darkness, he made out the unmistakable silhouette of Aoife Brighteye, Jarl of Dyflin, crossing the Hall to the private chambers above. She stepped forwards into the wavering light of the fire and smiled. "Long day, Cenwulf?" she asked, gesturing at the table, which was covered with empty steins and half-finished dishes.
Cenwulf shrugged. "Boring day. Gods above, tell me you've got something for me to do?"
Aoife shook her head, shaking her shock of red curls. "Afraid not. Unless you care to weigh in on Wernham-Hogg's factory bid in Dyflin Canton? They want to put a parts manufacturing plant upriver from the Elk Lake nature reserve."
Cenwulf waved her away, already irritated. "No, no, get away. Go push your pencils somewhere else."
Aoife laughed and turned to carry on her way. "Goodnight, Cenwulf. Get some sleep."
St Joseph
Pepper Atoll, Brytene
Lance-Corporal Arnold Blackegg
It had been weeks since anything vaguely interesting had happened, unless you counted the raccoon that had scared Trooper Kwan out of the port-a-potty last Tuesday. Still, it beat being shot at by rusty AK's or kidnapped for cartel money, so he couldn't complain. His cigar went out and he cursed, fumbling around in his pouches for a lighter. It wasn't where he normally kept it, and with a frustrated snarl he laid his rifle on the box in front of him and began searching in earnest. After a few seconds he glanced up, and that probably saved his life.
His eyes, slowly adjusting to the dark after his cigar had sputtered out, caught a trace of movement on the rocky, litter-strewn beach below, between two of the quays. He snatched up his rifle and aimed down the sights, switching on the night-vision scope as he tried to make out what was down there. Probably just a dog or something, he thought, but then he saw the movement again, furtive, between two beached boats.
"Who goes there?!" he yelled out, his voice bouncing off the corrugated roofs nearby and making him suddenly aware of how isolated he and his dozing partner were. No response came, but this time he heard the movement clearly, heard a clunk as something knocked against a pile of wooden lobster pots.
"Last warning! Identify y- OH FUCK!" he cried out, thumbing off the safety and loosing a burst of 5.56mm into the night....